


One Soup

by AJ_Writes_Nooks



Series: Mando Kitchen AU [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: AU, Adorable Grogu | Baby Yoda, Bebe bebesits bebe Grogu, Beskar kicks butt, Cute Kids, Din Whaps with Spatula, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff will keel you ded, Force brain torture, Frog conversations, Gen, Good Parent Din Djarin, Grogu is a butt, Grogu is a meanie, Grogu | Baby Yoda Being a Little Shit, Humming, ManDadlorian, Mandad, Mandalorian, Mando almost dies, Mando didn't sign up for this, Mando humming, Manly humming, Momdalorian, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Restaurant turns into demonistraunt, Syra, The Razor Crest - Freeform, This Is The Way, Tripping on naught babies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-26 21:15:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30112140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJ_Writes_Nooks/pseuds/AJ_Writes_Nooks
Summary: Mando has an adorable, fluffy diner and spends every day groaning about his sixteen-year-old employee's dumbness, and roasts a Sith lord like a Christmas ham for her.
Relationships: Din Djarin & Grogu
Series: Mando Kitchen AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2215872
Kudos: 5





	One Soup

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Life_is_short_and_so_am_I](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Life_is_short_and_so_am_I/gifts).



> All art by @life_is_short_and_so_am_I .

“One soup! Three scree sandwiches!” I bumped the door open with my hip, giving Grogu a little wink as I passed him. He was like the local kitchen door greeter, snug in his highchair and just short enough that I didn’t bash him with my handful of platters.

Without dropping a single one, I made it to the sink and dumped them in, generating a ruckus loud enough to fry my eardrums.

Din’s humming broke off on account of the clatter and he gave me a look.

Rather, his helmet gave me a very pointed, very irritated look.

“Sorry,” I whined. “My wrists can’t hold everything.”

Jerking back toward the grill, Din smashed his spatula against a blossoming flame. “Dank farrik!”

“The kid’s got big ears, watch the swears!”

He pulled his helmet off halfway to demonstrate. “I’ve got big ears, too!” Then, forgetting himself, shoved it back on.

“OH!” I tossed the nearest sopping rag at him. “You DO have big ears! You’re soooo much Grogu’s dad.”

He gave a mild grunt and tossed three scree fillets on the grill, ignoring Grogu’s warbling, wet laugh. He moved over to let me fill a bowl of soup and I gave him a nudge.

I said, “You’re good at this, you know. The whole bounty hunter turned dad thing.”

Somehow, Din could make silence pause. “Thanks.”

Nestling a spoon in the soup, I added, “But not that good.”

I shot for the dining area before I got a faceful of beskar, and Din started humming again. Only this time, it was like an ominous battle chant of destruction. Maybe he planned to hide one of Grogu’s diapers-the dirty kind-in my dresser again. His version of a prank, though the poor man was still learning what humor was.

Back in the dining room, I let a grin stick to my mouth as I gave a traveling Gungan his bowl of soup. Its smell mingled with the outside air coming through the vents, and I let it wash away the kitchen’s heat. Maybe he grew up on Nevarro, but wearing armor in the kitchen? Boiling hot, and not exactly looks-wise.

The kitchen bell rang with the smart strike of a gloved palm. “Three screes.”

I took in a last breath of cool air, then marched up to the order counter and balanced all three plates on one arm. “Table?”

He pushed the ticket at me and I took it with my free hand. “Table seven. You could have just said.”

He shifted the necktie of his grey apron, ignoring me with an obvious acknowledgement. I waited until he set another batch of spotchka-soaked chips to fry, then carried the order to the right table, which happened to be a local family of three frogs. The baby was just old enough to eat, and since then they’d been coming every day for lunch.

They asked me to sit for a while, so I stayed and let them chatter about their textile business and how fast little K’Pasi was learning her alphabet.

Din didn’t bother me while we chatted, because if I didn’t talk to them, they’d come after their meal and stand at the order window to talk to _him_ , and he was no match for one frog’s long-winded conversation, let alone three.

.

Some drunk wayfarer called me a _pert little bina_ halfway through lunch and Din hit him with a spatula. Weird choice of weaponry, but I was pretty sure it was against the law to physically hit a patron.

Not to mention, the patron had a thick skull, and coupled with too much spice, he wasn’t exactly feeling pain. So Din threw him out, which wasn’t actually an unusual sight at the Waystation. People had grown accustomed to a big, strong dude with a spatula taking care of business if his customers got too aggressive.

Honestly, he should have just given _me_ the spatula and let me do it myself, but he insisted. Or, well, I’d never asked for my own spatula, and so he just existed, doing his thing like it was nobody’s business, because it wasn’t.

True to his general stoic self, when I asked why he’d hit the wayfarer for calling me that, he let out a grunt and murmured something about MURDER. I was kind of surprised. Considering how gripey he tended to be, those complaints didn’t usually cross the red line of killing.

So maybe _bina_ was a pretty bad insult. I decided not to ask further.

Instead, I tried not to trip over Grogu while he wandered around the kitchen, somehow out of his pram and looking for adventure. Or a giant body falling on top of him. He _really_ seemed to be looking for that. He didn’t want upsies, either, so I was forced to carry plates and keep my eyes trained on the floor directly in front of me, watching out for a silly little son wanting to hang out with his very-not-silly dad.

Unfortunately, Mando’s outfit didn’t have drapes of cloth like mine did, and so Grogu couldn’t tuck in with him like he could with me.

I sighed the tenth time I nearly broke my face on the floor, barely saving three bowls of soup from hitting the deck and crashing into a million Non-Grogu-Safe pieces.

“ _Force_ ,” I screeched, catching myself with a harsh slap of my feet, dragging my toes forward before I snapped my ankle in half. “Please get him a pen or _something_.”

Din didn’t seem overly concerned, though he spared a glance back at me, maybe wondering if I had, in fact, snapped my ankle. After all, he was the guy standing in one place, and I was the red flag running around attracting all Grogu’s attention.

“He already has the ball,” he commented, turning back to the stove.

I blinked. _What exactly was he talking about? How does a ball-_ “No,” I crowed, “I mean a pen like a playpen, like for babies.” Then added, “What ball though? He doesn’t have one.”

But it didn’t look like he wanted to explain, because he gave one of those loud silent bouts, and I rolled my eyes as I carried the soups out. If he wasn’t going to talk, then he better start paying me extra for assuming so many conversations out of him.

Din finally took the little beasty back to his room toward the end of the night. It was almost closing time, but we still had ten minutes and every once in a while someone wandered in for a short bite to eat.

This time, it was a black-dressed guy, swaying on his feet until he took a seat. Then he was swaying in his seat, jug of some toxic drink swishing in his hand. He was one of the weirdest patrons I’d ever waited on, and not just because of the twisted, angry face beneath his hood. This guy _radiated_ weird, and I’d never felt this kind of attitude dripping from someone, even Din, who had _radiating emotions_ down pat.

I had to swallow three times before my Waystation greeting squeaked out, and even then I wasn’t sure this guy heard me. “Hi, what can I get you for?” My head ached, but I didn’t bother to fix the botched second attempt at a greeting. If he wanted food, I’d get him food and kick him out. Anything more than that, and my head might very well have exploded.

“I want some…” His head bobbed back, taking me in with grey, bloodshot eyes. “Some competition. This town’s so small, I can _feel_ the edges cutting into me.”

“Uh…” I blinked again, eyes pulsing with the ache that seemed to have migrated into my whole head. Unsure whether to breathe in or out, I managed to say, “Sorry, we only have food.”

He slammed the jug down and the whole restaurant shook with something cold and heavy.

I had three seconds to think up every scenario of my death by headache before he stood, and he seemed ten feet taller than he had before. Or maybe that was because I was now on my butt, planted on the floor with my pad and pencil scattered somewhere unknown. The pain driving up my left hip forced tears into my eyes, but it was nothing compared to whatever this...this otherworldly stranger was doing to my brain.

This grey-eyed customer was pulling my brain apart, maybe literally. My eyes burned, tears leaking through as he did whatever he was doing. It felt unreal, felt like a horrible, horrible nightmare turned into something worse.

Nothing was worse than a nightmare, but this was, and this was killing me. Every part of my body hurt, torn and rehealed in the same moment.

Then it ended, and a horrible crash and crack sounded somewhere in the edges of my splintering vision. But just like it had come, the feeling left, replaced my a queasiness in my bones that was unbearable, but less than the pain before. At least now, my mind was intact. Frayed with blisters of pain, but whole.

I hauled myself toward the wall as Din crashed back into the dark stranger. All I could see was a flurry of bodies, beskar-tipped punches, and a knife in someone’s hand. Din never used a knife, though, and soon the knife was stained with dark, and so was Din’s left-lower armor plate. I wanted to help, but my body had shut down, every limb trembling with spent energy. Whatever this guy had done, it seemed to be happening to Din, too, because his movements turned stilted, one gloved hand pressed to the seeping wound in his side.

Another feeling, this time one that threw me toward the wall, along with several tables and chairs that shattered on impact. Thanks to Din’s horrible taste, I crashed into a ratty quilt on the wall and saved my spine a rupture or ten.

Along with the now-rubble, a blaster landed near me, and when I found myself back on the ground, fearing the worst for Din when another smack rang through the trashed restaurant, I pulled it toward me. It was heavy as a full dinner plate, and the trigger was so far away from the grip, I wondered just how on earth Din held this thing with one hand.

All the same, I sighted at the cloaked man’s head along some little spine of metal sticking out the side of the weapon and pulled the trigger, hitting-...the wall. My head throbbed, but I aimed again, skidding a shot along the _other_ wall, though a couple feet closer to my actual target.

“I hate guns!” I screeched, chucking the weapon at the guy in the horrible heaviness of whatever he was doing, and hit him square in the back of the head.

He let out a yell and the weight dropped just like that.

It was enough of a distraction for Din to act as the guy switched his attention to whoever had bashed him in the back of the head. Before he’d even finished turning, Din shot his piton straight through the cloaked guy’s chest, ripping him backward and into the wall. He used whatever dregs of strength left and lit the pile of trash around the body on fire.

I cringed away from the sight, body too broken to even get better.

But even now, the fog coating my mind was fading, and Din was still bleeding. And the fire was still burning on top of the recently-mopped stone tiles. I put that out first, trying not to look too closely at exactly _what_ was burning, and then I helped Din outside, where he sank down against the closest back support, hand pressed tightly to his side.

We watched grimly as the last remains of smoke found their way out of the Waystation, turning the sign’s light into a murky smear of dusty color.


End file.
